Do you remember the scene in Forrest Gump where he had been running for over three years, hair and beard had grown long and wild, and all of sudden he just stopped in the middle of the road. “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll go home now.” Priceless.

And that was it, he turns around and starts running back home.

He reflects, then utters the words that summed up why tramping has become such a big part of my life. “You’ve got to put the past behind you before you can move on, and I think that’s what my running was all about.” I stumbled into tramping much like I stumbled into graphic design - I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but my gut was telling me to look for something better than what my logical mind was showing me at the time.

That’s how spoken word / poetry came into my life (stumbling into things, this is definitely a pattern forming) - I was looking for an outlet for some deep-seated pain to transmute, and I found it behind a microphone in front of strangers. What did I write about? Everything that didn’t make sense in my life: Dating, cultural identity, my relationship with my mother. 

I entered my first slam in 2016, won my first in 2017, and I’ve been on hiatus ever since. Until last night that is. Turning up to the Tauranga Art Gallery in jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt and a backpack - I looked more like a kid going on a school trip than an adult that’s for sure. At just five feet tall, I don’t take up much space. But connection isn’t about taking up space, it’s stepping into the energy in the room and creating magic by bringing your own.

As I stepped up to the mic for the first time, I told myself, “You can choose to bring everything that you are, or you can half-ass it. The choice is yours.” I was first up. I kept it together, but I was definitely shaking on the inside. Breathe. Smile. My brain screamed, “Oxygen is a necessity woman, not a luxury!”

Being first meant I got to enjoy the other poets. It also meant I got to hear the scores get higher and higher. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t make it to the next round. 

They say energy is never created or lost, it simply changes form. So if your mind is like a ball of clay, let us shape it with the intention that we want something better. Better versions of ourselves not because we’re lacking, for the mold that first created us is now a size too small to let us grow.

‘Energy’ by Ronna Grace Funtelar

Halfway through the first round, I spotted my friend Mayer. He was late, again. Really, he was the only ‘supporter’ I brought with me, so I guess I couldn’t stay mad at him. I was annoyed because he was late, annoyed at myself because I didn’t think I would even make the next round, but mostly gutted that he wouldn’t even hear any of my poems.

Damn Mayer for being late!

Then he called my name. Ben, the poetry slam MC, not Mayer. I was in the second round! Mayer turned to me with a cheeky grin and said, “Told you.” We both laughed.

People ask me how I prepare mentally for a performance. It’s simple really, I visualise myself standing on stage while I watch from the audience. What am I wearing? What do I sound like? Do I look nervous? Most importantly, am I owning that space and energy? Sometimes I see it so clearly that it even feels like deja vu.

Ben and I had a laugh as I watched him lower the mic stand for the second time. 

“A letter of love to the woman I was called The Death Rattle of my Ovaries.” Finger clicks and the audience laughs. It was electric.

I saw the score cards shoot up in the air, but couldn’t see the scores from where I was sitting. Four out of five judges had given me a perfect 10. Breathe. Smile. Mind blown. I had a chance to make the top three. I was buzzing.

My last poem was actually unfinished, up until a few nights before I had been making changes. In fact, it wasn’t one of the three poems I had brought with me to perform. I packed my poetry book before I left home, you know, just in case it felt right to share it.

It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. That’s been the hardest part for me to overcome in my writing - releasing the need for perfection. The story is enough, and you can figure out the details as you go.

So yeah, I won. I’m officially the Wham Bam Tauranga Poetry Slam Champion for 2021.

The Death Rattle of my Ovaries, the poem that almost got perfect scores, came from a pretty deep wound, though in the end, it did feel like a letter of love to the woman I once was. The end of my marriage, friends’ struggles with infertility, questioning my career ambitions and the business of being busy - all that pain I have since transmuted. 

Even though that wound has pretty much healed, now and then I still see remnants of a life interrupted. Trauma can close our hearts, but it doesn’t have to be forever. Maybe, much like everything else I wasn’t looking for, I’ll stumble into love again too.

I said: What about my eyes? // He said: Keep them on the road.
I said: What about my passion? // He said: Keep it burning.
I said: What about my heart? // He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?
I said: Pain and sorrow. // He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the light enters you.

Jalaluddin Rumi

fivefootronna is Ronna Grace Funtelar - a thirtyish adventurer, sometimes poet and lover of cheese. She has a unique brand of optimism that is a combination of her great enthusiasm for life and cups of coffee during the day.